


Belie My Ashen Shroud

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty uses peoples' weaknesses - Sherlock Holmes' weakness is wanting to believe things are clever, and John's is believing there is good in everyone. Jim decides it is time to act on John's weakness, so that pure, noble John will turn as black-hearted as Moriarty.. Or at least, a little gray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White To Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Similar to the style of my Jimlock piece Between The Lines, but shorter and focused on a different pairing of course. This is less well meshed with the show canon - veers off within chapter two - featuring a greater extrapolation of Jim and John taking to each other.
> 
> Initial chapter covers show episodes 1-3.
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

Long before John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty skulked in the shadows like some refined mangy predator. With the business they both were in, each coming at it in their own distinct direction, hearing of the other was inevitable. News of Sherlock Holmes reached Jim's ears first, that's all. Moriarty had kept to the shadows for some time, as it was easier for him to hide than it was for Sherlock, whose name was murmured at the Yard.

The detective's great intellect preceded him. Slowly, Jim began to send direct assaults on Sherlock, though the detective would not for some time discern him as the culprit. He delighted at their little crusades against each other.

Time passed, and John Watson finally made the detective's acquaintance. Then everything changed for Jim...

* * *

  
  
News of John first came in to Moriarty the day that John moved in. The files and photographic stills of CCTV footage placed in front of Jim mystified him. To all appearances John Watson, Sherlock's newly elected roommate, looked perfectly boring in every way.

Yet up until that point the reclusive detective had avoided others. Jim could not fathom why this slightly pudgy average man, whose history did not impress Jim in any way, had gained a grip on Sherlock when no one else had.

A grip that he watched develop through cases and surveillance. Moriarty heard of John shooting down his sponsored homicidal genius, as the madman had eyes and ears everywhere and now that he was riveting them on Sherlock Holmes, those two men were unable to escape him.

Instead of annoyance for the loss, he commended the marksmanship. Likewise, having to destroy one of many links in a long ancient crime chain did not bother him as Sherlock's intellect impressed him, and the story of John's ruined date bemused him into a soft chuckle. Now that was remarkable on both sides.  
  
Other sources trickle information in, too, such as John's private records from the army, his medical records, therapy session recordings, etc. One of Moriarty's favorites was a governmental snitch who informed him of Mycroft's failed bribery attempt. That news was what made Jim Moriarty sit up and take notice; That a poor, struggling to get by, doctor in London would refuse such a magnificently sizable sum, and that he could dismiss it without knowing its exact size, for loyalty's sake, and loyalty to a man he barely knew, told him that John was either a unique individual or John had formed some kind of sudden attachment to Sherlock. Or both.  
  
Either way, he was intrigued enough to weave John a part in his nefarious little plot to meet Sherlock face to face. Not only was it obviously fool proof, given Sherlock's clear brotherly affection for John that rivals that of his own real sibling, but it was a chance to be closer to the abnormal yet average man, too.

* * *

 

Getting to frighten John was more of an amusement then it was about gathering intelligence on the man's obtuse personality. He enjoyed watching the vest slip on the doctor, putting on a brave face at gunpoint.

It also bemused Jim to frighten Sherlock into believing, for a moment, that John might have betrayed him. Jim wanted him to see that, and for John to see it in Sherlock's eyes. He thought he succeeded there. The entire evening was quite a success, in fact. Especially, to his triumphant unexpected delight, when John decided to prove his mettle in full by volunteering himself in exchange for Sherlock's safety via his tackle of Jim from behind.  
  
Then, something happened. Something that made Jim's insides flutter unexpectedly. John rushed him from behind and gripped hold of him. With a vest between them there is still a skip to Jim's heart. Something unlocking within him. John is so loyal to Sherlock, always so innocently dutiful to a point of self destruction.

Sherlock was his intended target, his original flirt. The man's brain was his allure, though in person Sherlock was all mind, and Jim had comprehended that. When Jim said he had had enough, he meant it. Sherlock Holmes' amusement talents were running dry for Jim's tastes. A little banter, a few threats, and Jim was ready to walk away. But that night, he learned something else.

John had spirit.

* * *

  
Johnny boy was on his mind whenever confounding Sherlock Holmes was not. There was still a great deal to do with the detective, and his new interest in Doctor John Watson could not slow his game. Their perspicacious combat was a long term game of cat and mouse in Jim's eyes. He knew what end would come, but now was the time for toying with his prey. That was what the pool was all about, after all.

Finding out he had more than one prey was unexpected, sure, but Jim liked that. John was a bonus that soon ensnared his every free second. He began to think and immediately realized one shocking fact about this sandy light brunette – that he was one of the few genuinely good men in this world.

John Watson was pure in a way modern society seems keen to rub out. He would yield to Sherlock, Jim knew that, even if it meant death. The pool had proven his level of dogged loyalty. Every detail of the man was rather endearing to the dark eyed Irishman. When John had put on the vest Jim had been busy eying the jumper. So quirky and undervalued.

So chaste in many other ways. John may have seen war, but being with Sherlock opened his eyes, and Jim, sitting on the sidelines, watched. The purity of John's spirit remained all the while.  
  
Jim knew what he had to do.

Moriarty had to get to the doctor of kind heart, whose stark whiteness of soul seemed to glare in Jim's face. Jim would make John Watson turn a faded hue of gray. He would bring him willingly over to his nefarious creed.

Jim Moriarty had a new game, and the turning table made his opponent John.


	2. Borages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter only goes partway into A Scandal In Belgravia (40 minutes into the episode. Right before the Christmas scene where there is a time skip). From here on out this is our timeline - we are in the time skip!
> 
>  
> 
> My apologies for the delay in posting!  
> I ended up getting into several other stories, and I went on a Jimlock binge for a few days. Normally I'm better about updating speeds. I'll try not to let it happen again!!

John Watson's life had been turned upside down ever since meeting Sherlock Holmes. To say that the strange man consumed the majority of his time was an understatement.. Sometimes he felt like a tag-along, like a side kick in some story, but for the majority of his days John was enraptured with the thrilling life he led with Sherlock.

He has never had a friend like Sherlock, even though he has had a slew of friends and a few best friends over the years. Since grade school John has proven an amicable fellow, likable by most, and he has never had much problem in making friends. Though he never thought he would make one who he would tie his life to..

In his mind that kind of devotion was reserved for a girlfriend or a wife. John was used to friends who meet him up at the pub. Not ones that he regularly places his life within their hands for safekeeping..

Yet John did, he trusted Sherlock implicitly with everything including his life. Within all the danger and madness of their days he never doubted the consulting detective. He felt compelled toward the other man, like a bit of space rock stuck in the gravitational pull of some bright star.

John had a few inklings from Sherlock, as the man immediately recognized at Angelo's the first time they dined out together. While John did love his friend he soon found that small crush replaced by an affinity of friendship. His affection transmuted into a compatriot bond and there it stayed.

What is odd is that he did believe he had nearly fallen for Sherlock once – right after the explosion, when John stayed the night on Sarah's couch because of Sherlock's reaction to his blog. Instead of approval Sherlock had growled over the very minor details – which in John's opinion was fine to share as they were all true. He was set to be chuffed for a few days, until he saw the explosion and raced back to the flat.

The relief he felt at seeing Sherlock perfectly fine, idly strumming his violin, made John realize the true depth of his emotion. He did have a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

“I'd be lost without my blogger,” had made John gain a tiny bit of hope that quickly petered out as Holmes became Holmes once again, a man of foibles and caprices the likes of which none could compete. Their bonds had grown so strong he mistook them for love, yet John soon realized he could never be with Sherlock that way. As much as he adores Sherlock, and their life together, the man is quite enough to take in day after day. Sherlock is rich like chocolate cake, but his is a less sweet flavor. John cannot even fathom what Sherlock would be like on a romantic level.

By the time The Woman came on the scene John was just about ready to settle into dating, again. He had already tried, of course, but Sherlock's demanding allure was like an inescapable gravitational pull – Sherlock was stronger. His girlfriends had a habit of being disgruntled by this, but the cycle could not be broken.

That is why John found it so odd when a romantic bunch of flowers turned up at the flat for him, just after Irene Adler had duped he and Sherlock, escaping with her phone after Mycroft sent the two of them after some photographs only to find that the real issue went far deeper (via the form of some Americans in Irene's abode).

The card that had been resting among the blue star-shaped flowers did not give much of a hint as to the identity of the sender. The message simply read: To John. It was signed with a single letter – J.

The odd thing was the flowers themselves – they were not classical bouquet flowers. Or at least, they had not been in any bouquet John had ever given.

“What do you make of this?” John said to Sherlock, curious about the sender's intentions and more than hoping that Sherlock would be willing to use his observational skill to John's end. Luckily he had already seemed interested by their unusualness, so Sherlock ambulated across the flat to the vase.

“Well the card is useless for discerning anything from the handwriting as it was clearly written by the florist.” Sherlock remarked, setting the simple card back down. He turned his attention to the flowers themselves.

Both John and Sherlock examined the flowers - The plant was long and thin, the stem covered in small fuzzy white hairs, with a few thick, forest green leaves left on. The flower itself was a five petaled spectacle in a shade or two lighter than Persian blue. Thick sepals curled into view between the petals, creating a prettying effect when coupled with the white center. Several buds not yet bloomed hung down like little furred pine cones. While they were appealing they did not have the in-your-face quality of normal florist buds.

“Starflower, John.” With a few quick clicks of his deft fingers Sherlock had found the identical plant online and began to rattle off anything that might have been relevant. “Borage. An herb. An annual. A companion plant in gardens for its ability to attract bees and confuse pests. An herb grown in vegetable gardens, that improves the flavor of nearby produce. The vibrancy of its flower distracts from the lacking of its stem and weed-like appearance. They call the color 'true blue.' Edible, with the leaves containing a cucumber flavor. Medicinal uses.”

“That's a bit weird.” John remarked while puzzling about the gift. Why not send carnations or something a bit traditional? Not that he disliked them, they were quite pretty in a quirky way.

“Actually,” Said Sherlock who was still researching on his laptop, “They mean 'courage' and seem to fit your personalty quite well.” Finally he concludes, “I would say you have an astute admirer.”

“Fit me?” John did not follow the detective's train of thought at all. Like so many prior times he needed extrapolation, “What about blue flowers fits me?”

“You're a courageous individual, John.” Sherlock looked up from the laptop to his friend. “A companion.”

“And I taste like cucumbers?” John's response had been more than a touch disbelieving. The entire thing seemed too far fetched. Courage, perhaps that was believable – but the rest of it? No, that was just herbology. Nobody would put that much thought into some flowers for him.

“I wouldn't know.” Sherlock replied as boredom began to settle in again, luring his attention away from the now less interesting subject.

John shrugged and went off to add more water to the vase, commenting offhandedly, “I wonder if they're from Janet?”


	3. Fountain Date

That following week another borage bouquet came for John, with an identical card to the first. So he decided to make an inquiry. It turned out that they were not from Janet, though asking her about them did lead to plans for a date. Still, John wondered about his secret admirer, J.

After his successful date with Janet, which was a casual meeting up for tea, when he arrived back at the flat he found his third bouquet. Just like the last it was nothing but starflower, with the same card. A strangely pretty flower under its awkwardness..  
  
The more John went over what Sherlock had unearthed in his expedient research, the more a slight bit of hope began to flare up. It was oddly apropos for John – something that almost unsettled him. As flattered as John felt after the week had gone by, he never quite understood why his admirer remained secret.

* * *

 

  
Jim had taken to the idea of battling against John as well as Sherlock, immediately, using the route of a chess game for his outline of attack. Although, with more romance than chess, as he would be wooing John.

Flowers are the natural initial way to declare oneself when wooing, roses traditionally. Jim would not do them himself had he been truly trying to woo John, but the normal course of things seemed best and would do for the first phase. Indeed, John seemed to appreciate small bouts of regular living in between his escapades with Sherlock Holmes.

Precisely normal did not enter into his way of thinking – Jim still wanted to add his flourish, his artistic signature. So he settled into his office with Sebastian and composed the perfect floral message – the borage.

A flower, well herb technically but Jim would not hold that against it, meaning courage. A companion to gardens, and a multi-use medical plant. Something that looked a little bit lanky and peculiar, yet had aesthetic appeal. Most of all Jim wanted something people would walk right by and never hand to a loved one.

The only way it could have gotten better would have been to get an earthy brown colored flower, but the ‘true blue’ euphemism would have to do.  
  
“John Watson may not understand it.” Sebastian remarked once the order had been finalized. The well fit blond towered over Jim in height, but one would never feel that from the way they acted towards each other.  
  
“Sherlock’s attached to his hip. Of course Sherlock will notice.” Jim scowled as if insulted by the mere idea he might leave anything to failure. Every detail was always plotted and accounted for in his machinations.  
  
The high-browed Irishman lets his face coalesce into a smirk at the merry thoughts converging in his mind, “I’m planting a seed, Sebastian. That’s all.”

* * *

 

A fourth bouquet came for John twelve days after the arrival of the first. More borages with nothing else. This time there was a change, but it was in the card – finally a real message. An offer to meet.   
  
John’s eyes had nearly popped at reading that. The instructions had been simple – in two days his admirer would be in Regent’s Park in the afternoon. He would wait for John on the innermost part of the inner circle, near the mermaid fountain.

Sherlock had been busy studying the various rates of coagulation of blood depending on contaminants. To the detective it was fascinating work with a plethora of possible future applications. Sherlock became quite absorbed in his experiments and notations.

John found it more than a touch morbid and appreciated the chance to nip out. More than anything he wanted to get out and learn more about his secret admirer. The walk was brisk from his anticipation, and the park fairly quiet. John did look more curiously than usual at each passerby, but he did not run across his admirer on the way to the fountain - at least he did not think so.   
  
Upon arriving at the fountain he saw no one capable of being his admirer within sight. John did not need to check his watch to know he was on time, so he took a glance over the bronze-green figures while waiting. He never heard the figure come up behind him.  
  
“Johnny boy.” Jim had a particular delight in creeping up and saying that in his ear. He would have sworn that John had a heart attack the way he jumped.   
  
John quickly moved backward and his hands went up defensively. “What the hell are you doing here?!” He barked the accusation with his volume risen by fear and agitation.

Jim Moriarty was standing there in a pinstripe suit from the Saville Row Company, the stripes a soft gray that nearly blends into his dark jacket, only standing out from the sun’s glint catching them. Layered under the jacket is a black waistcoat, and below that a pressed white collared shirt. His tie is the color of a rose in its prime, a sheen to it that suggests it was silk. Hiding his eyes was a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses with a color gradient.

Moriarty had terrified John when they met. The man was there while he got strapped to a heaping pile of Semtex - of course he was frightening then. Yet later, at the pool, it is not Jim’s screamed outburst from the phone call that had disturbed John as much as it had been his complete cavalier attitude towards the lunacy between he and Sherlock. That attitude – a self possessed figure like a King roaming around among peasants. From the outfit to his team of snipers Moriarty was always all about presentation.

“I invited you,” Jim lifted up his hands as if displaying his suit, but he was the real attraction. “I’m the one you’re looking for.” That intonation was positively sinful, as was the way his lips crinkled with delight by John’s flabbergast expression.

“You-” John pointed at him accusingly, “You strapped me to a bomb!” He could not help but look to check that there were no red dots, and upon finding none he nearly tackled Jim to choke him. Instead he heaved in a breath and held it in for five seconds.  
  
Jim’s lips pushed together slightly, his brows rising in a mirage of innocence, “Oh. Are we really going to split hairs?” He nearly sounded mocking with that tease.

“What the HELL is wrong with you?” John finally screamed, the fact that they were in public not overcoming the nefarious presence before him.

“Wrong with me?” Jim wobbled his oil-slicked hair with a shake of his head. “I’ve been a thoughtful admirer, my little borage.” He only just held in his chuckle at that. “Manners wouldn’t go amiss.” His eyes were toying with John while he suggested the little show of appreciation for his amorous efforts.

A muscle jumped in John’s jaw as the rage overpowered every other negative emotion swarming just beneath his skin. He growled out in distrust, “You’re playing some game.” Without letting his eyes leave the Irishman he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. John’s first thought was to get word to Sherlock or Lestrade, hopefully both.  
  
“I think I made myself clear.” Jim almost sounded reproaching of him, on the very edge of overstepping his courtly air.

John steeled himself and effected a sudden harsh stare with his set lips, “I’m not gay, and if I was I sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in you.”

A lopsided smile came over the consulting criminal’s face, as if all of his expression had rolled down one side of his face. “You don’t know know anything about me, John.”  
  
Jim shook his head and turned to walk away, “You don’t.” He paused for a moment, “Since you’re so interested in playing out this naughty act,” He nearly purred out that suggestive quip. “Stay there, or I’ll have my men shoot at you.. my dear.”


	4. Shame Or Opportunity?

John returned to 221b to find Sherlock still meddling in the kitchen, with an additional putrid smell wafting through the apartment. It had hit John before walking through the door, and only added to his already sunken feeling.  
  
Moriarty – Jim Moriarty! The insulting fact was that he had thought about his secret admirer these past two weeks.. Images of pretty blonds, unassuming redheads, scholarly brunettes, and black haired women in scrubs had been on his mind. Not Jim Moriarty..  
  
Sherlock looked up as John entered, catching sight of him and narrowing his eyes curiously. John had left with pep in his step, and returned like a man walking to the gallows; John was leaning forward just slightly, the weight pulling down on his mind triggering the same in body. Sherlock saw the slight skew and knew that John not only disliked the meeting, but he already knew whomever it was. Sherlock had begun to analyze, so he felt the need to continue just as one bite of food begets another.

John imagined this day. He had pictured what it would be like to meet his admirer. The past two days it seemed like the only waking thought had been the mysterious image he continued to build up in his mind's eye. Only to have it have been Moriarty..  
  
The set of John's jaw was harsh, his internal feeling had to be anger which does intrigue Sherlock. Sadness or disappointment would be expected considering he was heading for a meeting with romantic intentions – an altogether messy affair in the detective's eyes. Yet anger after meeting a secret admirer? Now that is compelling. Sherlock lifted his gaze to the pull of John's eyes and the disappointment within – ah, his admirer was a man? But it was not just that, something more. Something deep that Sherlock could not yet place..  
  
John looked to him with a stare that is spanning to the very edge of their friendship. He wants to tell him, Sherlock can see it in his eyes, but something discombobulates John entirely. Something Sherlock cannot pin, an altogether bewildering force. Before he can consider it further John turns and heads up to his bedroom for some privacy.

* * *

 

John thought hard on calling Lestrade or telling Sherlock right then, when it first happened. The longer he sat on the knowledge of Moriarty's – what, exactly, he was not sure.. An underhanded attempt to break up their crime-fighting duo? Mere teasing? A fleeting interest? He doubts the last one, almost as much as he does the first – it's a bit ridiculous to consider Moriarty romancing a straight man to deter him from helping his best friend solve cases, and neither does John believe it was romance.  
  
Still, he could not find it in him to let them know he had been duped by Moriarty.. That every sly smile Sherlock had seen him give at the thought of his admirer was for the man who tried to kill him. The man playing cat and mouse games with their life together. So for a time John sat in silence, worrying in his own mind.

* * *

 

Two days later a fresh borage bouquet arrived and the sight of it turned John's stomach. He pursed his lips and tried to ignore it, which lasted all of five seconds. They were unceremoniously held over the trash bin and dropped in, inclining Sherlock's attention to wander to John as he does so, noting his friend's pallor.  
  
“Allergies, John?” Though John knew Sherlock's coarseness was probably not intended it did not help that he already felt rubbed the wrong way.  
  
“I don't want to talk about it, Sherlock.” Murmured John while he wracked his mind over the peculiar turn his life had taken – and right when he felt as settled as one could be with Sherlock . As multitudinous as Sherlock's caprices are John was no longer floored by them.. so why is there a new mad genius trying to unseat his mind?

* * *

 

“Boss,” Sebastian said thickly, half bowing to the man who sat neatly at the desk before him. Jim did not look up to him, fiddling away with the paper in front of him. Around it was a plethora of images of the round bellied militant doctor.

The blond haired man laid a bloody scarf on Jim's desk. This was his evidence of a job well done. Surveillance could always do the same, but Jim prefered that little bit of drama. He never kept them, but he wanted to look upon the physical signs of earthly horror resting before him.

Instead of looking, Jim twisted the edge of the pencil between his lips while pondering his words before withdrawing it and flipping the pencil, rubbing out the error. Jim had thought of something better to say, fixing it with an elegant scrawl.

Jim thought that in all likelihood John would not read his little note right away, as John would still be sore with his admirer's identity. That would be alright, he planned to enjoy this part of their game most of all.

As Sebastian turned around on his heel, intent on leaving – really, knowing better than to stay if Moriarty did not want him around – he heard the slender man begin to chuckle.

* * *

 

John knew Sherlock was not a normally minded person – he was unlikely to take the idea as a slight to John's character. Sherlock thinks well outside the social box, after all. The detective was also better suited to discerning anything from their Irish nemesis. So after much mental bickering with himself he decided to tell Sherlock...  
  
It came about suddenly while both were reclining in the living room. Each man performing to his own amusements – for Sherlock that was a book, and for John the telly. Though he had turned it down, disinterested in the program. John's thoughts had been on being honest with his flatmate and sharing this oddity that felt like a dream.

John spat out the words like they soured his tongue, “My admirer was Moriarty.”

For a moment there was naught but silence. “Moriarty, ah, that's why I didn't see it..” Exhaled the detective, not at all shocked. If anything it absolved him from not recognizing the secret admirer's true identity sooner.

“Jim Moriarty sends me flowers and that's all you've got to say?” John groaned under his breath, wondering why he only seemed to be in contact with loonies. Yet deep down he was glad that there was no scandalous backlash, that Sherlock was indeed too set apart to think of him like that. John's concerns ebb away once proven to be unfounded.

“He's working an angle, that much was clear. Perhaps trying to scandalize you..” Sherlock waves a hand, as if they have more important matters to attend than Moriarty's intentions. John found himself unsettled by that bright eyed stare, “Are you going to participate?”  
  
“That's not even a question, Sherlock.” John replied with stiff irritation audible in his voice. Such a thing seemed a given to him – why encourage Moriarty, no matter what he is up to?  
  
Sherlock rose from his chair and fixed John with a considered stare, “I would use it as an opportunity.”

John picked up a book to try and tune out the consulting detective. He was resolved to his decision. “Then it's a shame you're not me.”


	5. My Jimmy Bear

Once his decision had been stamped out John refused to move on it. He would not try and sink deeper into a situation that already felt like a quagmire up to his waist. As confusing as it was, all John needed to know was that Moriarty was up to something. Unwilling to fall for it, John planned to rebuff Jim's efforts and in this way wash his hands of the entire matter.

He spent days assured that ignoring the odd advances would be all the sign necessary to show Moriarty that his plan would not work. After all, there was nothing he had done to encourage it to begin with, and he thought his disgust in his secret admirer's identity had been clear to Moriarty at the park. John was sure he looked a bit foolish to the two intellectuals at times (as they certainly did to him), but hopefully this would show Moriarty that John was not quite _that_ foolish to think he would play along in any manner.  
  
During those few days, when there were no more flowers arriving at the flat, he assumed it had been a success. Instead John was wrong. It seemed that Jim was merely biding his time, as a package arrived for John exactly one week after their meeting in the park.

Mrs. Hudson signed for it and carried it up to them, intrigued but too polite to say so. The brown parcel appeared inconspicuous from the outside, but once John apprehensively opened it the parcel revealed a small gift box wrapped in lustrous plum colored paper, topped with a thick black bow.

John set the present on the table and stared at it with hard set eyes. He knew who had sent it - Even the box seemed nefarious to him.

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head, smiling unassumingly, “I've never seen a bow that color.”

Sherlock appreciated the item, too, looking over it closely. “Suited to the sender. The wrapping is precise.” He took in a breath with his admiration, for as with everything Jim did, he did it to the nines. "A garish conscious association with the dark stereotype of his profession."  
  
Ignoring her, the two men exchanged a glance over the gift; John looked to Sherlock for some sign of agreement to move ahead and found it in the other man's eyes. So, with a steadier hand than he really felt, John pulled the end of the box to unravel it and ripped the paper off, opening the lid. He looked inside without hesitation.  
  
A pair of lifeless beady black eyes greeted him. Not a bomb, but brown fur on a rounded head with two tiny curved ears. With a frown and a confused pinched look to his eyes, John surveyed the item within the box in disbelief.

Jim Moriarty had sent him a stuffed bear.

* * *

 

The wind was a light brush, something like a person waving a fan in front of his face. It beat the whipping he often felt when up on tall buildings like this. The sinewy figure moved forward with a powerful strut across the rooftop – rubber, which would have meant a hot afternoon if he had been there for a target, but luckily Sebastian was not.  
  
Today he was there for Jim Moriarty, who had elected it as their meeting place while both were out and about for various purposes. His sharp gaze picked up on the figure fifty yards away, back turned toward Sebastian. Even from behind he could tell that Jim's arms were crossed over his chest. The closer he got, the more Sebastian wondered why Jim was not turning around to begin their two person assembly.  
  
“Sir..” Sebastian said in greeting once a few yards away. Creeping up on Moriarty was something he knew better than to do. The formal address was merely a precursory announcement of his arrival more than it was an actual greeting.  
  
The Irish accent finally greeted his ears, soft and pleasant as the cool air around them, “Lovely up here, isn't it?” Jim had not turned toward him to speak, still staring ahead at the landscape made of London rooftops.

When Sebastian said nothing and remained behind him, Jim continued. “I like being above the rabble, looking down..” He walked to the edge and peeked over without fear of how close to the brink he stood. His body language giving off a quiet feeling from those shrugging shoulders that Sebastian found a bit unsettling, as if standing with a madman. Jim had a way of igniting that feeling, rarely, but it always came on strong.  
  
“It would be an excellent vantage point for a job,” Remarked the sniper who had instinctively noted as much as soon as he arrived. He used what he had at his disposal to progress the conversation as quickly as he could.  
  
Jim turned at last, eyes looking a touch smug and haunted at once. The unseated feeling coagulating in Sebastian trembled before dissipating as Jim's playful voice murmured, “Now you're thinking..” He angled himself slightly, the city visible in the corner of his eyes. “Well?”

“He did everything as you said he would, sir.” Replied Sebastian, watching the smug look on Jim's face begin to expand as the mirth within the madman was renewed.

* * *

 

John called Detective Inspector Lestrade after that. He refused to remove the bear from the confines of its box, which included not letting Sherlock remove it. The detective had not liked being separated from something that interesting, but John kept him away from it.

The cheerful little brown bear sat on his tush with both his arms and legs extended, his smile permanently etched on by needle and thread. The empty eyes seemed lively to John, who imagined a nanny camera style contraption behind them. Though, worse was imagining a bomb stuck within his downy belly.

The bomb crew arrived and removed the bear with due care, and in the aftermath as they waited for results a nervous John admitted the barest detail he could about why Moriarty had sent it.  
  
“Moriarty.” Sherlock replied easily when Lestrade turned to ask him what he knew. “John-” He was about to explain John's recent attention from the genius lunatic when he noticed the panicked expression on his best friend's face. In solidarity he clammed up and brushed Lestrade off with a few snippish remarks.

* * *

 

After a forty minute wait they found themselves with the bear again.. Apparently it had cleared all standard tests that the bomb squad could put forth. After being deemed safe it was returned, by Lestrade, in case they wanted to gather evidence. The silver smattered man was amused by the two bringing in a teddy bear for examination.  
  
John was anything but amused. He had expected something, anything, but not nothing. Not _just_ a bear. Unable to believe it he turned the curly-furred plushie over in his hands. The toy was gripped tight, and he felt nothing within its body nor any limbs. John half-grunted as he twisted the head, finding no mechanism within – it appeared to be just a bear.

Irritated and a mite confused, he continued to grapple with the bear for any signs of devious abnormality. Frustrated at finding none the now furrow browed man ripped off the left leg, determined to find something. What he instead fills his hand with is artificially coarse feeling curls of white fluffy filling.  
  
An arm was yanked asunder from the main form that grew steadily smaller as its other limbs were sacrificed for the sake of John's dwindling perception of normality. More fluff spilled out of the toy until it was nothing but mounds of white and scraps of brown fuzzy fabric.

It was just a teddy bear. No wires, no metal, no listening devices, no tiny cameras, nothing at all but a simple stuffed toy whose smile lay ripped in half.


	6. Black Rose Rendezvous

During the rest of that day John could think of nothing but Moriarty's confounded gift... A stuffed toy was something that seemed so entirely wrong for Moriarty as John knew him; Jim Moriarty would send a bear with a purpose to it, not a bear as a present. He still could not believe there had not been a bomb or other sinister addition to the little toy he had ended up ripping to shreds.

John could not understand what Jim was playing at...  
  
So there at the flat he listened as Sherlock shot off many fanciful theories as to Moriarty's intention. Some ideas were frightening because they lead John into serious danger. Others simply made their enemy sound foolhardy. Some of them darkened John's mind – the ones ebbing towards sincerity – but Sherlock highly doubted those and gave them little of his time.

Still, Sherlock's mind entertained all possibilities... it was not every day the madman pulled such a ridiculous stunt and he would be loathe to pass up an opportunity to do such mental gymnastics.

As Baker Street was their sole location that day, and the one thereafter, John started to feel itchy without a case to occupy him. He suddenly craved distraction and there was none.

Instead the next day John ran down to the off-license, but even alcohol could not provide the mental relief he needed. It started to, but his mind wandered back to Moriarty and brought a new crack to his armor. The telly was equally as useless in his quest to step away from the confounding memory of a broken stuffed bear.  
  
So, as the afternoon dragged on with a snail's pace, John was forced by his own mind to consider Jim's bizarre style of entrapment under the disguise of wooing. The longer he thought about what Sherlock said to take advantage of it, the more John dislikes the idea.  
  
His brain fought to get into a more familiar realm and his thoughts turned militant. John attempted to apply a militaristic lens over the issue and before long the mindset took off. What John found unsettled him more than Sherlock's own words...

Because Sherlock was right. As usual, the damn intelligent git.  
  
John could not deny it to his own mind – In a military operation one would not hold back and flounder, as he does now. A difficult enemy would require reconnaissance work before one could engage in a battle – after all, how could one fight what they do not understand? Surveillance, undercover operations, the whole nine yards may be employed in some cases, but going in empty handed would never cut it.

The more he thought on Jim Moriarty's incessant wooing, the more he disliked the situation he found himself dragged into.

* * *

  
“Flowers for you, dear..” Mrs Hudson called up the stairs. She was already on her way up but Sherlock came out to meet her halfway. John closed the book cover at hearing Sherlock bound up the stairs as if he had a new case. “John!”

A single black rose and a note. Sherlock did not wait for the proper recipient – the elegant scrawl of John on the outside making it clear who that was – he ripped it open himself. There was a simple message – _One death per minute you keep me waiting._ No signature was present, but none was needed.  
  
John's eyes closed as he exhaled in frustration. Unlike Sherlock he had no superior capabilities to deal with Moriarty. John was a man with capabilities of the heart, not of mind. When people were in danger, John protected them with whatever was available.

That meant he was going.

* * *

 

Sherlock had suggested several ingenious plans but John rejected them. He wanted a decisive and clear cut solution that resulted in no casualties whatsoever. If that meant pacifying the psychopath by playing along with his scheme for a little while, fine, they would try it once. If Moriarty made this a habit, then John would take a more direct approach.

The abandoned car park Jim had selected as their meeting place seemed empty when John arrived. He felt little comfort from the gun in his pocket, recalling the fearful sensation he had had upon seeing red sniper dots in the past.

John walked in, heading for the center of the empty concrete with a heavy ache in his gut. He did not make it to the middle before he heard other steps behind him, and he wheeled around to see the poshly dressed villain approaching him with a grin. _Bloody hell,_ thought John, _he actually looks attracted to me._

“I'm here, you don't have to kill anyone.” John said as he wheeled around and saw the more slender man approaching. He had been counting the minutes on the ride over, bemoaning each victim in his mind.  
  
“I haven't, but it did bring you running..” Jim chuckled under his breath at the man's simple thought – though, really, he found John's admirable nature a treat after the criminal underbelly he was used to associating with. His lips part in a display of bright teeth. “Oh, come now, you must admit this is a bit exciting, isn't it?” Jim beamed at him with a gleam in his mad eyes. They almost look soft falling on John, but the doctor knows better than to be thrown by him.

John told himself he ought not be made that it was a hollow threat, but the safety of others only consoled him for a moment before self berating started. He wipes the glare off his face and shakes his head exhaustedly, “What do you want?”  
  
“I wanted to tell you I haven't killed anyone today.” Jim trilled happily, as if John had been waiting to hear that very bit of news.  
  
John started to lose his expression, as if someone had shaken it off him. In an odd moment without a clear head he replied pointedly, “I have a phone.”

Jim chuckled at a higher register, seeming pleased with that response. “I'll remember for next time.”

“No. This is done with.” John's voice rose declaratively. The very idea of a next time, and a lack of sniper target dots roaming his body, sent John scampering toward the nearest exit. Jim did not follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Not Beta’d - If you’d like to be my new beta (I could use a second to stop overworking my BFF!) please leave a note in my Ask box. Must have AIM, that’s all I ask! Thanks so much!


	7. Lucky Thirteen

The next day a dozen roses arrived at the flat – a baker's dozen, with no note but John knew who they were from. Twelve were a deep crimson red and one in the center was a bright rich yellow. Sherlock immediately set to discerning their intent and his research found that thirteen roses was traditional when coming from a secret admirer – but not the color scheme.

The romantic meaning behind the red was obvious even to Sherlock. He jumped onto the world wide web, searching for a floriography website. “Yellow signifies friendship..” Sherlock read, still mulling as he scrolled down. It may have had a benevolent meaning in popular vernacular, but he also found it was linked to jealousy in the Victorian era. To Sherlock this seemed more Moriarty's style. He clicked out of the site and turned his attention back to John. Most interesting research even if only on flowers.

The news befuddled John entirely. “Jealous?” He questioned the idea of it humorously. “What could Moriarty be jealous of?” As far as he was concerned he paled in comparison to the two societal outliers. John saw himself as a normal bloke with no remarkable attributes, and at Sherlock's side he sometimes felt like even less than that.  
  
“That you have my attention.” Sherlock replied swiftly, having privately decided that Moriarty was trying to foil him via John.

His deduction was logical – Jim Moriarty had spied his intellect and they began sparring with each other because they had no other options; Such genius was rare. Therefore, by engaging Sherlock first, going after John next seemed likely a secondary attempt at more of the same, at least to the detective. Sherlock was ready to change his hypothesis, knowing how “changeable” the Irishman could be.

“I know he's obsessed with you, but are you sure?” John asked, questioning his theory since this seemed like such over the top grandiose behavior if it was merely an after thought to get to Sherlock.

* * *

 

A little fizzling noise caught his attention later in the evening. John moved Sherlock's world atlas to get underneath it to where his phone lay. Once unobstructed the buzzing tune rang out clearly while John slid his fingers over the screen.  
  
New text from a blocked number. Without thinking he clicked it;

**Do you appreciate your roses, John?**  
 **I thought we'd try it a little differently.**  
 **J.M**

After hesitating he forwarded the number to Lestrade, but not the message itself. John wanted to see Jim Moriarty behind bars, but he was still concerned about this awkwardness so he left the message out. Though he doubts that Moriarty would be so foolish as to let a number lead to any real evidence or whereabouts he cannot help but try.  
  
For several minutes John toyed with his phone, letting his mind wander while trying to decide whether to reply or not. Sherlock had watched while steepling his fingers together, and after John caught his discerning gaze he wrote the only thing Moriarty needed to know and sent it.  
  
 **I won't let you use me to get Sherlock**

John waited for a reply while staring at his phone as if it was a foreign object. He could not help feeling unsettled and anxious waiting for a reply that took less time then he thought it did.

 **Prosaic thinking. You're better than that.**  
 **I get bored and think of you. Not him.**  
 **J.M**  
  
After staring at the screen he could not come up with anything more, and part of him was afraid to encourage Moriarty. If he was going to start something he wanted to be ready with it, not do something accidently.

John recalled his earlier analogy comparing dating Moriarty with a military surveillance operation. If this were a military operation then John would not be waiting for Jim to come to him on his home turf, either. John would take the fight to him. After the thought struck John forced it from his mind and put his phone aside, screen side down.

* * *

  
“I'll be using your membership.” Moriarty's soft deadly voice told Sebastian, giving him a nod. It was a command, not a request, which was their usual form of communication.  
  
In spite of Sebastian Moran's background, gifted by his parents' wealth and status, his noble schooling had not yielded the desirable high paying job that his progenitors had dreamed of when going to school. Instead it had yielded a man with a disdain for the bureaucracies of the business world and a desire to get as far away from them as possible.

Sebastian went into the armed forces shortly after leaving university, and then after his forced retirement (at his age they may as well have discharged him) he was on his own – for reasons he would rather not dwell on.  
  
It still irked him to consider being ousted as he was. Still, long ago he found a dashing way to move on. Sebastian's parents have not heard from him in years, and though he had memberships in all the prominent clubs of the upper class just as they did, he used them as little more than a bolster for his reputation while carrying out more unscrupulous activities.  
  
Given the sporting background he acquired while abroad he had at least made a name for himself, enough that some had inquired after him following his departure from the army, including one such Jim Moriarty. Now the slender man was his boss, and his real family was long forgotten.

But Sebastian Moran did not make any emotional mistakes - Jim Moriarty was not his family.

“Of course.” The blond gave a small nod that was submissive and polite, yielding to the one he was most loyal to. There was no point asking which membership he referred to as Sebastian never used any himself. His eyes asked why, curious, but he knew better than to say any such thing.  
  
Yet as usual, while looking at him, Jim could see what most others could not or were unable to. He still did not answer the unspoken question.

Everyone had a point of vulnerability – some had many, some had few, but everyone had something. Jim knew he had tapped into Sherlock's weakness already, and now he was well into John's. Both men would fall at his feet and stare in awe at his intellectual prowess before he defeated them if plans went according to Jim Moriarty's specifications.

And they almost always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's background in this is a modification of his ACD history.


	8. The Beginning

Another bouquet entirely composed of borage flowers arrived for John a few days after the thirteen roses. It was different though, as the note attached to this one was prolonged with flowery prose;  
  
 _Dearest John,_  
 _Allow me the opportunity to show you my true self. Indulge me_  
 _in a date, tonight. Be outside your flat at eight sharp._  
  
 _Do not make me beg for the pleasure of your company or I_  
 _might have to be naughty, and not in a fun way._  
 _\- J.M_  
  
John could not glare at the note when he read it, instead he drooped as he realized that the villain remained relentless in spite of John's repeated refusals towards him.  
  
For the remainder of the day Sherlock and John careened around the flat with Moriarty's name on their tongues. It seemed to crop up in every discussion, ubiquitous to that day. Sherlock weighed the merits and risks, while John considered it pure madness. At least, he said he did.  
  
In reality John had thought it over and he saw some of the benefits, but, compared to Sherlock, he knew he would not see as much. John would fail to break down the nuances of detail and behavior. Yet the thought of finding something – anything – was alluring.  
  
“Couldn't we have Lestrade arrest him?” John inquired with a groan while leaning back in consideration of going just to take advantage.  
  
“No.” Sherlock replied simply, as he mulled it over while standing beside a window.

“He nearly had me killed.” John pointed out peevishly, sitting up a bit straighter as he noted Sherlock's apathy toward his comment.  
  
“That doesn't matter.” Sherlock replied dismissively.  
  
“Doesn't.. It doesn't matter?” John's incredulous voice dropped, unconvinced. “What do you mean it doesn't matter? Sherlock-”

“Confining a man like Moriarty will not stop him.” Sherlock turned to the side and gave John a stare that said he had insight where John did not. “The law is too flexible for someone like him.”  
  
Instead of continued anger John honestly wanted to know what his flatmate was thinking, “Then what?”

Sherlock met his eyes and no answer was there – Sherlock did not know how. The consulting detective had not yet found an answer for his arch nemesis, but he had new theories every day.  
  
It was the fact that Sherlock did not know how to take on Moriarty to destroy him once and for all that finally made John decide to accept the offer – that and fear for the threat within it. John would not stand idly by with Moriarty taking innocent lives. Failing to follow through on his last threat was no guarantee.  
  
As maddening as it seemed, when John took the emotion out of it, engaging Moriarty would be the most fruitful course of action, provided that John did not die in the process. Even if he was not be the beacon of genius that Sherlock was he could carry the information back to him and let the detective make what he could of it.

Throughout the day John hemmed and hawed over his decision. One moment he would be sure of not going, and in the next he would be planning an escape from Moriarty should things go amiss. Between them, Sherlock and John thought of different advantages, finally settling on an ear piece to let John hear Sherlock, and vice versa Sherlock could hear them through it. Tailing the car seemed less important than contact with John.  
  
After much dithering back and forth John appeared outside 221 Baker Street dressed in a neat navy blazer, freshly ironed trousers, and blue and white vertical pinstripe shirt. He stood there for a moment, feeling like a fool and wondering when all of the Yard would burst out of the woodwork to laugh at him, and then a posh black Mercedes drove up..  
  
The chauffeur seemed surprised that John did not know where they were going – after a few moments' conversation John surmised that he was an ignorant outside hire, and that they were headed to a classy restaurant.  
  
After arriving John stepped out of the car and walked in feeling uncertain yet he put on a false gait of assurance. A hostess asked for the name of his party. John shrugged slightly, and questioningly said, “Moriarty?”  
  
“Right this way, sir.” Replied the chipper young woman with a plastered on smile. She turned and John found himself following her without thought. As soon as they arrived within the great dining room he saw his date – as villainous as ever in a Westwood. Coincidentally Moriarty's suit also bore pinstripes and this time he had a rosebud in his buttonhole.  
  
The dimmed atmosphere gave Jim Moriarty's eyes a fluorescence that set him apart from the equally well dressed crowd. It would have made John thankful he wore one of his better outfits were it not for the thud of his heart. Strangely, the confined formal wear felt like a physical reminder of his goal.

When John approached he sucked in a breath as panic fell over his every nerve. Without control he continued walking forward, internally feeling in the midst of a fight or flight response, with John wanting to opt for flight. Moriarty stood up when John approached and they shook hands with locked eyes. Two enemies, standing in a dining room dressed up with floor length curtains and contrasting colors, prepared for falsified romance.  
  
Anyone watching would never have known that one man had dressed the other in explosives and had snipers set their sights on him. If anything, they would have been mistaken for business colleagues in a merger going rather poorly. John could not manage to look too kindly on Moriarty. For him coming at all had been trying enough. While Moriarty, well, he remained bearing the grin of a shark smelling nearby blood.  
  
“So glad you could make it, John.” Says the villain in that soft elegant voice that rivals Sherlock's in its wonderful ability to drip like honey down one's ears. He wrinkles his nose and shoots John a wry, toying, look as they sit down across from each other. “Have you enjoyed your gifts?”  
  
The table was covered in a fine white cloth that draped down to the floor. Two small pink roses rested in a vase in the table's center, with individual utensils and glasses in front of each of them. A steward approached and filled their glasses with water. Silence fell while they were not alone, but once he left John spoke.  
  
“Let's agree that I'll believe this joke of yours, and we won't talk about Sherlock.” So John begins with the same outline he and Sherlock had decided on. Though the other man was quiet so early on John could hear his breathing through the ear piece and felt comforted.  
  
At least until Moriarty reached across the table and plucked it from his ear. Before John could snatch it back Jim dropped it into his glass of water. John's confidence waned without Sherlock in his ear.  
  
Jim merely shrugged, “You have to play fair.”  
  
“Like you?” A slight huff could not help but find its way into his voice. Losing Sherlock's presence rattled him more than he hoped he let on.  
  
“No, and that may be why I like you, John.” Jim Moriarty had such intrigue in his eyes that John nearly asked a genuinely curious question, but it was too early to be distracted.  
  
A bottle of red wine was brought to the table and uncorked before them. Jim nodded to John while the man stood there pouring, “You should look at the menu, they do excellent French cuisine.”  
  
John's menu had been ignored and when he looked down he picked the first agreeable looking thing he could find – a steak – and lifted his eyes back to the pursuing villain. The waiter poured both their glasses and left the bottle in a bucket of ice beside the table. John took a moment to be flummoxed by the fact that he was on a date with Moriarty before he tried to look back up fearlessly. “Moriarty-” John began, only to find himself cut off.  
  
“Jim.” Corrected his enemy-date. “Or James.” He winks at the formality.  
  
“Jim.” John repeated after a pause, both thrown from the interruption and feeling the name clunky when all his mind could think was Moriarty. “Are you really after me?”  
  
“Lighten up and drink some wine, Doctor Watson. It's Château Margaux, Pavillion Rouge 1985. A pleasant Bordeaux at the finicky climax.” He swirled the wine glass in his hand and admired the play of light upon the crimson color. “Wine is drunk at its peak of existence. There is no better way, is there?”  
  
“I thought this was a date – you won't answer my questions?” John tried to approach Jim on his terms to get an answer when a direct question had failed.  
  
“I've made myself perfectly clear, florally. That is how these things are done.” Jim replied succinctly, sounding entertained and John knew he was having fun with this. It almost seemed genuine save for the manic hint in Jim's dark eyes. “Did you give the bear a cuddle?” Jim chuckled under his breath.  
  
“I thought it was bugged. Ripped it apart.” John explained with a triumphant turn to his voice.  
  
“Shame.” Jim hardly seemed bothered by that news.  
  
“I got the starflower metaphor. Thorough.” John remarked back like he was hitting a return volley. “And thirteen for a secret admirer.”  
  
“Did you like that I offered you my friendship to go with it?”

John looked puzzled and then admitted questioningly, “Sherlock thought you were showing jealousy?”

“Of what?” Moriarty inquires curiously, lifting his wine glass with the stem resting between his index and middle finger.  
  
“Him.” John explained it in one word, watching a bemused look traverse over Moriarty's face.  
  
“He would, wouldn't he?” Moriarty laughed softly under his breath and John's lips almost quirked up into an agreeable smile in spite of himself – Sherlock was a damn arrogant man. Jim rose sparkling eyes, “I thought we weren't going to talk about Sherlock tonight?”  
  
John nodded, finding little else to say since he was the one who brought Sherlock up in the first place. Luckily the waiter arrived to take their orders, breaking up the silence before it truly fell.

When he left, and they were alone again John leveled a serious stare to his enemy and decided to propose an honest question, “If you care,” and he did not think for a second that Jim did, “If you care then why put Semtex on me?” He cannot help that slight hitch of annoyance within his voice, “What was the pool all about?”  
  
“Oh, John..” Jim actually began to laugh at him, lifting his hand and putting his thumb and forefinger to his knuckles as he did. After a moment of this he became composed enough to look mirthfully back at his date, “You still think it's all about him.. Let me ask you something - What does a little boy do when they like a girl?”

John knew - They get nasty by putting gum in their braids, ruining their toys, touching their desk with finger paints.. This analogy only got a disbelieving stare in return as John would not accept that Semtex equated with knocking a girl down on a playground to show that a little boy liked her.

At John's obvious contemptuous stare of doubt Jim continued, “I had control, you know. There was no danger – not for you.” Moriarty winked and looked even more amused as he lied to John's face.


	9. Of The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so evil with chapter titles. It looks fabulous in the drop down now..

  
“I find that hard to believe.” John remarked with a faint clipped tone to his voice. He had felt an all consuming terror as he wore that vest and stood watching his flatmate holding a gun to the man now sitting across from him in a custom tailored suit, wearing it as well as his naturally fitting saucy grin. Nobody could tell him that terror was not real and have John listen.  
  
“That you're always safe, or that I fancy you?” Jim asked with a hint of a chuckle to his voice. Then when John took up doubt in his eyes like a knight bearing a shield Jim turned a little more coy. “Sherlock may have an angel's bone structure but outside of his mind he's coarse as a hotel towel.”

John found it a bit simpler to play the less hostile and more honest role where he could. He shrugged derisively and answered the latter, “I thought you two would be perfect for each other.”  
  
A soft murmured chuckle left under his breath after that remark and Jim shook his head, leaning forward and placing his hand on the table. He reached out, forearm sliding beside his own place setting, until he reached John's hand. His fingers wrapped around John's wrist gently. “A good man is hard to find.” Jim's touch was caressive and gentle. “A truly good man, John.”

The way his dark amber eyes opened up made him look like something other than Moriarty, though it was not transformation enough to make John forget the people armed with explosives, the pool, and all this destructive madness. He did notice the accessible eyes, but John still pulled his arm away.  
  
“A good man?” John repeated with unresolved skepticism toward the idea of James Moriarty having an interest in him. He still believed it to be a trick, but for a moment he considered the theory of it – where Jim comes from such a thing is probably few and far between indeed.  
  
“You're noble and loyal.” Jim said with such an honest air that it disguised his true skill as an actor. He looked right into the heart of the man with his penetrating gaze, quietly exhaling his next words with pleasure as if cracking his spine back into alignment, “So rare these days.” With a slight rise in passion he continued, “Modern people don't have that. They don't have respectability.”  
  
John leveled him with a dubious look, unfettered anger coiling in his stomach. “Do you think you do?”  
  
“I do.” Jim smirked with unabashed self admiration before adding, “But having respectability does not make me a good man.” He coiled around the specifics in a way that momentarily reminded John of Sherlock, but Jim was far less enigmatic. His voice dropped to a softer silken volume, “It's all a game, John.”  
  
That winding ball of rage flares within him and John bitterly snaps, “You've-!” People turned to look at him and John immediately lowered his voice, but kept the biting tone, “You've killed people!” The shorter man keeps up his smoldering stare while their first course is brought, briefly interrupting them.  
  
Jim remained utterly calm about the accusation, but waited until the waiter had left to reply quite simply, “So have you.”  
  
“That was during a war.” John believed him to be referring to his military record, which was the opposite of a stain on his moral character, and he would make no mistake putting Moriarty in his place for having suggested it.  
  
“No, John.” Replied Jim more enigmatically than he has been so far. His eyes looked that dangerous touch which made him appear as Moriarty the mastermind once more. “I know what you did; A man who took the Hippocratic Oath, who swore to do no harm, took up a gun as a civilian and shot a man stone dead.”  
  
John's silence became exacerbated as he considered whether Moriarty could have known about the cabbie who he had shot and killed during his first case with Sherlock – the woman who wore all pink.

Jim's eyes were so startlingly precise that John understood when he looked into them that Jim he had to know that John had been the one to shoot the cabbie. “You don't understand that I have eyes all over this city.” Jim gave a falsely congenial smile as they came to understand each other. He stabbed a piece of lettuce with his fork while he scrutinized John.  
  
 _He wasn't my patient_ \- is what John wanted to say, but to justify a murder to Moriarty seemed beyond bizarre, so that for a minute he became too tongue tied to continue.

After a few moments, during which Jim looked ready to be mirthful at any second for getting one up on John, the man responded. He held his arm out in a gesture of obviousness, though it was not grand, but rather demurred given their formal atmosphere. “That was in Sherlock's defense.” John already had that fact grounded for himself - he did the moment he pulled that trigger.  
  
“But who really put Sherlock in danger?” Jim asked none too coyly, barely smirking at the sudden drop in John's expression.  
  
John's lip curled inward as he looked away from Moriarty, suddenly peeved at the direction of their conversation, “The cabbie with his pills – you should know.” He comes to a screeching halt with his salad.  
  
The consulting criminal shook his head no. His voice inched down to a soft curling whisper, “That thrill meant more to him than you, Johnny-boy.”  
  
It hurt to hear, but that night John had learned just how far Sherlock Holmes was willing to go to be clever, and he knows it is true. John found Jim weirdly insightful, but understandable without extraneous explanation to his every word. Sherlock's ideas always needed some additional explanation but Jim seemed unusually understandable. For a moment John wondered whether the Jim from IT persona was a glimpse at reality, even if a skewed one.  
  
“We all hurt people, John.” Jim replied softly while raising his wine glass to his lips. “It's just the motives of the other person stepping into the ring across from us that makes us good or evil, not ourselves.” His indomitable eyes intrigue John in spite of knowing the wrath this man could bear down on others.  
  
“So that is why you're not responsible?” John asked with a directive leveling voice as he supposed the man was, in a roundabout yet clear way, justifying himself – whether for John's benefit or his own, John was not sure.

“No. That's why I can't be at the lofty heights you are.” Jim replied, to John's mingled chagrin and puzzlement.  
  
A waiter stopped in and took their finished plates, as well as refilled Jim's wine glass. They gaze at each other while waiting for him to leave, looking as if in the midst of a staring contest with John harsh eyed and Jim aloof and relaxed.  
  
“You attack people who threaten the ones you love – but when a man loves his empire, it's wrong.” Jim remarked once the waiter had left, while twisting the glass in his hand, letting his wrist swirl it around. Slowly his eyes come back up to John's, “Funny, isn't it?”  
  
“I don't think I'd call that funny.” John finally drank a sip of something other than water, and admitted, if only to himself, that the wine was delicious. It had a fruity aftertaste he quite liked. “So what's your empire like then?” John hoped it would be an opportunity for more information, given Moriarty's opening via his word choice.  
  
“I am an excellent organizer.” Jim replied teasingly while he danced around the true question, dabbing the corner of his lips with a clothe napkin after getting a little wine on them.  
  
“Some people would take those skills and become a PA.” John rose a brow as they verbally skirmished under the muted atmospheric lighting.

“I'm not some people.” Jim murmured and smirked slightly with a flash of pearly teeth. He enjoyed John's humor in a manner of speaking. “My skills are better suited to complexities; Helping establish or maintain different associations, or finding an individual certain accommodations for a problem or something or other..”

“That's a very grand way of saying mobster.” John interjected with a swift, blunt stab to Moriarty's fabulated prose.  
  
“I'm not a mobster, John, but a black market prioritizer.” Jim scoffed with bemusement in his eyes, though they turn sharp as daggers when they rose back up into a direct flirtatious gaze. “I'm a man who knows how to recognize and apply talent.”  
  
Their main course came and given its timing both men sat in silence while the maître d’ laid their plates and the waiter arranged the table. John was glad for a moment, as he still found it strange how Jim could turn from outrageous murderer to seducer in the same breath.  
  
“Tuck in.” Jim murmured teasingly as they are once again alone. He took his utensils in hand but watched John cut into his steak, seeing the clear pleasure on the curve-faced doctor's features as he bite into it. Jim smiled at him, “Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned Prince.” He took a bite of his own meal and let John study him a moment, before adding, “Someone's got to save the day.”  
  
John looked puzzled and his lips fall apart slightly while considering what that may mean. His first thought was...  
  
“Not him.” Jim replied as he caught John's strain of thought from his expression. “He's not a hero.” His eyelids fluttered slightly and it was obvious that John was considered the Prince was in this equation.  
  
John was not flattered by Moriarty's elected fairytale archetype for him. Instead he asked, “What would that make you?” Then took another bite of the melt in your mouth perfect steak.

“I can play many roles. What do you want me to be?” Jim murmured coyly with a widening smirk that began as a small faint thing and grew to Cheshire proportion.  
  
The way Jim toyed with his fork made him look childish in John's eyes. “I know what I think you are.” John muttered back with a careful but belligerent tone.  
  
“But is that what you want?” Jim enunciates the words carefully while leaning forward slightly, looking across with poignant eyes that seemed to push their way into the depth of John's gaze. “It's not.” The dark philosophical gaze roams over the militant man's face. “I can see it in your eyes.”

It unsettled John to see the profundity in Jim's mad stare, to experience the Irishman's acute perception. Even if it was a skewed view of John's feelings, Jim was right – John might have considered him to be the villain, but he did not desire to give him that epithet. His fork and steak knife stopped moving while the commentary subdued him.

After turning a serious stare on Jim Moriarty, John exhaled and shook his head slightly. “Of course I'd rather you didn't hurt people.” His tone blatantly added, _but that does not mean I think of you as a Princess or anything near that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter un'beta'd, [seeking beta for this](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/post/55718123786/seeking-beta).


	10. Love Bombing

John rubbed his fingers across his eyelids while lying supine on the sofa at 221b. Usually it was Sherlock who stretched out there, but after his date he just needed to stop and feel reality for a minute. Of course when he opened his eyes the detective loomed over him like a dark cloud, face ashen and lips in a thin, set line.

Sherlock may not have been able to speak to John during his date, but he did have a recording of the entire conversation via a wire tap he nicked from good old New Scotland Yard. When John arrived back at the flat following the date's quiet ending – pudding, then each man walking away in one piece – Sherlock had been waiting with questions and theories to bounce off the other man.

"I know.." John repeated to mollify the consulting detective as he rattled on. This had been a long conversation and John knew it was somewhere in the AM.

"-nd I could anticipate some of those gestures you described via his articulation and word choice. " Sherlock was musing in an energetic, jumpy fashion from all the joys of analysis. His body language becoming a little more vibrant in the process.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm glad you put a wire on my chest too." John found himself repeating a great deal tonight. He had already told Sherlock everything twice over, and answered the detective's incessant queries covering what John felt was every conceivable minutiae. "Do you know enough to have an advantage over him now?" He asked hopefully, both to finish the madness of his supposed dating, and this particular conversation so that he could go to bed.

"Can't yet say..” Sherlock murmured as he flittered through a psychology book of body language tells to study some of the things John had said Jim had done. “It is one thing to know a man, but another to predict his movements."

"You had so much from the couple minutes you first met." John could not help but complain. This was several additional hours of talking, and even if Sherlock had no video record, body language was only so much (50% actually, which Sherlock would have told him, had John asked). Besides, if it was not enough, then that meant more and one date felt like plenty of sacrifice.

"That was tempered with his mask as a consulting criminal, which was what I needed." The dark haired man hissed out a sigh, vexed by the playful, multi-faceted criminal. "Now he is much... Soppier." Sherlock replied, for so much was indeed useless flirtation and coy 'getting to know you' measures. "Telling the man from the mask is its own experiment."

From his stretched position on the couch John released a massive moan. He turned his head toward the cushion, letting his forehead rest against it. This felt like an exhaustive burden - and in the end the inquiry lasted longer than the date itself.

* * *

 

Five days later Sherlock and John were preparing to leave the Yard, having come in to straighten out the details of their latest solved crime. The two sleuths were on their way out when Lestrade stuck his shoulder and upper torso through a doorway and waved them over, "John! Sherlock!"

They rerouted their direction and the handsome officer with straight cut features and a mercurial colored hair moved aside to let them into his office. His eyes taut with sheepishness as he spoke, "John, there was something through the post for you, but we confiscated it."

At the peculiar scrunched turn of John's expression Lestrade goes on to explain, "After the last time I thought it might be wise to put a watch on you." He nods and John can see the genuine concern. He knew his expression must have been disturbed when Lestrade was there during the ridiculous teddy bear debacle, and though the man was entirely right to look out for him John cannot help but feel warm with embarrassment.

"It passed our X-ray but given what the bomb squad found the outline looking like.. I wanted you to open it here, if you wouldn't mind." Lestrade asked with that tiny clenching down on his authority.

"Yeah, of course.." John nodded in an obliging manner, following the Detective Inspector back out of the room. A niggling sensation in his belly left John feeling slightly nauseated for whatever was to come. He tried to think it over and could not understand it - Jim sent him something that looked like a bomb now?

John glanced at Sherlock as they moved through the station, heading into the same room Sherlock had examined Carl Power's shoes in. A plain looking square brown box sat waiting for them.

Lestrade reminded John that it had been checked, with no traces of explosives or metals, and it was probably just meant to scare them anyway. That still did not make him feel any better, or less apprehensive, reaching for the cardboard flap.  
  
“Oh, there was this note.” Lestrade paused to find it and handed the classy slip of texture white cardboard to John.

The note read:

_To make up for your vest, and prove my affections, in one explosive sweep!_

_Ta, darling._

_\- J_  


When John looked within the parcel from the open top his stomach turned, but not for the reason he expected. Then again, with Jim, nothing ever seemed to be what he first thought. The oddity of it was so strange, and his emotions so mingled, that John busted out laughing softly in spite of himself.

Lestrade looked over into the box and began to stare in puzzlement. "What the bloody hell is that?"

Sherlock was equally as wide eyed as the D.I but he moved forward and ripped the front side of the box off to better display the object of present paramount importance. Now the dilapidated box stretched apart to freely reveal a small hard looking rectangle; A light pastel colored orangey-green outer shell, just too small to be a lunch box though it does have some sort of clasp on top. Curved edges polished yielding the entire surface a soft shine. Toffees and wine gums were attached to the outside in a neat arrangement of rows of three by four to form a small rectangle.  
  
Sherlock bent down to get a good look at the peculiar hand-crafted gift, “Dextrose.. citric acid..” He leaned in, sniffed deeply and nearly brushed his shapely nose over the top, “Some kind of flavoring.” He mused the details to himself before straightening up and speaking more declaratively. “The candies on the outside are commercial, but the shell is a custom piece.”  
  
“I can't believe he sent a... candy bomb.” John remarked, reaching out and taking hold of a strand of licorice resembling a loose wire from the back. “That's what it is, isn't it?” He asked for some outside certainty to ground himself, for the situation as it was already made everything feel so bizarre.

Lestrade had been staring beside them, a bit befuddled that this light pastel box had been the result of his careful following of procedure. This was the so-called bomb? “It looks like a candy necklace.” He muttered dubiously, before shrugging and answering John's look of surprise with the words, “My niece is obsessed with them.”  
  
“That's precisely what it looks like..” Muttered Sherlock, who actually took Lestrade's words to heart for once. He tapped the hard shell-like exterior experimentally.

Along the top is some kind of nub like catch or latch, which Sherlock looked at carefully. It was fit into the top in some kind of niche, and after examining everything else Sherlock had to slowly press down on it, then he pressed it to the side to shift it.  
  
From the end of red twisted fruit candy John held came something dark and creamy, squirting onto his hand. He lifted it to nose and smelt chocolate before giving Sherlock a dubious look. The detective worked free the stiff latch, opening the device and letting the front open from the top out.

Jim's odd gift of a candy bomb, which had a hard coated exterior shell decorated with fake gummy buttons and licorice wires, also had an interior that was crafted to look the part. For wires it had more licorice piping. A translucent blue-colored box rested within like a pretty gemstone..  
  
Sherlock immediately saw what squirted John - A trigger, that lay within the hinge of the door Sherlock pulled to get inside the mechanism, had pushed pressure within the licorice via what Sherlock was loathe to admit was a clever use of a check valve. The valve looked precise, yet judging from its color and the look of its texture it must have been a custom made candy piece, too. It connected to the glassy blue box with licorice piping running out of it, and within the blue chamber was a brown oozy liquid – whatever had squirted on John.  
  
Of course, the licorice piping had been cleanly hollowed evenly throughout. As Sherlock noticed the sculpted, finely crafted look of the false sugary bomb he thinks how posh Moriarty feels the need to act. He admired it a moment longer and then looked to the others..

“A basic, automatic system using pressure. It resembles a bomb but all its components appear edible and without danger.” Sherlock replied to the waiting stares of the other two, who seemed to have reserved judgment while Sherlock visibly hounded the strange present.  
  
“And this?” Lestrade asked, pointing at the azure chamber with a dubious expression.  
  
“Sugar rock crystals, Detective Inspector.” Sherlock answers humorlessly, looking at the simple science experiment, though its hard texture made it an ideal holding chamber. Rock candy.  
  
John held up his sticky, chocolatey finger with a raised brow and slumping shoulders. Sherlock shook his head and wormed a finger into the candy bomb, extracting a sample and holding it nearer to his eyes. He squished it between his fingers for a moment, then spoke, “The mass itself appears to be melted down bonbons.”

"It runs on bonbons?" John asked incredulously, he felt a faint flushing achieved on his face.  
  
After Lestrade left Sherlock had to give John a long talk about how the basic principles of physics were being applied – there was nothing truly mechanical. The liquified bonbons merely flowed through the licorice, they did not 'run' it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for having eight days between chapters - been working on a new, super long, and thoroughly complex piece, that claimed my full attention to polish... A Sherlock Choose Your Own Adventure with over EIGHTY scene choices!!! Posting it this week =D


	11. Paying Tribute

John had wanted New Scotland Yard to get rid of the peculiar sugar weaponry that functioned a bit like an action figure. Unfortunately, Sherlock had been interested in examining it in case there was some clue within its making. So, against John's wishes, Sherlock took the candy bomb out from under Lestrade's careful watch.

The detective had placed it on the kitchen table and proceeded to break it apart in order to scrutinize it from the inside out. To his chagrin all Sherlock could find was glucose composites and unsavory additives. He tested for every unusual poison he could think of – entirely safe.  
  
“There must be something I've overlooked..” Sherlock mused one morning as John meandered in with bed-head and sagging eyes. He was perusing over shattered glasslike fragments that once were the sugar crystal candy chamber with a magnifying glass.  
  
John looked over to the man and noted his haggard expression and tightly drawn lips. The taller man had all the signs of skipping another night's sleep. He sighed, “Sherlock, maybe it is what it is and there's nothing else to it.”

“Of course there is.” Sherlock scowled within his soft, breeze-like words. He then proceeded to ignore his flatmate as John fumbled around in the early hours to make coffee and a little nosh, while Sherlock remained enthralled with the gift.

* * *

 

  
Not long after the peculiar bomb made of treats another package came through. John had never felt more awkward leaving Scotland Yard than he had after the candy bomb, so he had gave Lestrade permission to open anything suspected as coming from Moriarty, at least for the next month.

After declaring the gift safe Lestrade dropped it off at the flat, and Mrs. Hudson brought it up to the boys. She had quite the smile on, carrying up a thin, rectangular box. The bow was stick on, so Lestrade's opening it had not disturbed the grandiose looking bloody red accessory. The box itself was a shiny apple-red color and exuded a posh sensibility.

“John, you've got a lovely present..” Mrs. Hudson's smile was stretching as she admitted, “I did peak.” Hurriedly she added with an excited apology in her eyes, one that also drew down on her wrinkles, “It was already open.. The Detective Inspector dropped it off.”

John groaned and Mrs. Hudson frowned at the odd response to such a lovely looking present. Her arms faltered, holding out the box but now uncertain. John took it from her apprehensively and opened the lid. He looked inside, then turned into the flat, “Sherlock!”

* * *

 

  
“Sebastian.”

That soft voice turned harshly judgmental snapped him out of his inattention. For a few seconds Moran simply looked at the figure clad in another posh suit before nodding and continuing, “Yes, sir.” He clears his throat, steadying his graveled voice into more dignified speech. Speaking to Jim Moriarty when he fails is a display in the art of verse, not prose. “I was unaware of the target's change, and after following her vehicle I was uncertain whether you would wish me to proceed.”

Moriarty stared perpetually, silent and yet not motionless. He twiddled his thumbs and licked his lips twice while regarding the normally perfect marksman before him.  
  
With nothing said, Moran continued and began to elaborate on his hesitance. “The target entered a facility for prenatal care.” He half bowed, giving a deferent nod to Moriarty, and continued speaking while looking to the floor before rising out of the bow at the end of the sentence. “Given that, I stood down and reported back to you, sir.”   
  
As the other man was obviously awaiting in silence, and Jim had as much grasp on the matter as he was going to have, Jim shook his head slightly. “I'm disappointed..” The soft words cut Moran with threats of real physical harm. The gigantic figure of the underworld that he was, Jim looked over Moran who was no more than a worker ant or a bee drone, with superior loathing. “If a mere scheduling conflict is enough to stop you, what use are you?”   
  
Sebastian's spine was as rigid as if he were in the service again. He knows that Jim not yelling could be as bad as Jim yelling, so it would be best to defer to him on all accounts. “I won't fail again, sir, as long as you wish me to proceed?”

“Of course.. why wouldn't I?” Jim asked with an increase in the petulance of his stare, a bit of insult rising as it appeared that Sebastian questioned him. It was a simple enough job that was muddled when it became a double murder in Moran's books, but to Jim murder was murder and the world kept turning just like crime did.

* * *

 

  
“It's a perfectly normal vicuna jumper.” Sherlock declared while lowering the dark bottle green color from his close eyed scrutiny. He had even checked it for any chemicals – in case Moriarty soaked it in something, but to his confusion it was clean. Sherlock sighed and remarked of the game the two were playing, “He's trying very hard at this..”

John reached for the opulent garment and shook his head as his fingers closed over it. The longer this bizarre circus act went on the more he felt that Sherlock was wrong – It was not about him and his game with Moriarty, it was about John himself.

* * *

 

  
Sebastian's single eye focused itself, the rim of his sniper scope pressed snuggly against his socket. A pretty young woman standing between the cross hairs of his scope. Sometimes he forgot how black and white things could be to his boss, and other moments he shook his head in disbelief at his own self – how he could think any differently of such a man.

In rare occasions like this he would look through the black lens and see one life, ready to be snuffed out, and feel no remorse. With two there was some, especially since he had no idea who or what wanted her dead, or even why. All he knew was that Jim commanded it, and for Moran that was enough.   
  
He fired and cleanly took out the target. Another day's work done.

* * *

  
That night Sherlock finished checking the candy bomb and threw it into the bin. He was frustrated with there being nothing within it – not a hidden microchip or subtle poison.. nothing clever, aside from its composition and functioning aspects.

If Jim had designed it for Sherlock there would have been, but he made it for John.

As the onyx haired figure turned he caught sight of that unmistakable shiny red from John's most recent gift. As his eyes move they naturally observe, as he has trained himself to do, and Sherlock cannot help but notice that the box is in the trash bin but with its lid askew he could see the interior – an empty interior.


End file.
